Loss
by EbonyKittyCat552
Summary: Losing Fingon was like losing his hand all over again


More angst... how very typical. Well, I guess Maedhros is just fun to pick on

Anyway... this is after Nirnaeth Arnoediad

Warnings: implied slash, talking about death, but nothing overly horrible I don't think

Disclaimer: These people, of course, belong to Tolkien, not to me

Maitimo = Maedhros, Macalaurë = Maglor and Findecáno = Fingon for those who aren't familiar with their Quenya names

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It was… difficult for Maitimo to accept the fact that his cousin was dead. More than difficult, if he were completely honest with himself. Well, he was, for the most part. He wasn't honest with his brothers, though, who sneered down their noses at Findecáno and could care less if their cousin had met his end at the hands of their mutual enemy. Most of them were still bitter over the loss of the High Kingship to their uncle. Only Macalaurë actually noticed that something was off. Macalaurë was good at that, though.

Maitimo felt as though a hole had been punched through his chest. It was oddly reminiscent of when he'd first truly realized that he would never have a right hand again, that it was simply _gone_.

That's what Findecáno was. He was _gone_.

The red-headed elf could not bring himself to cry. He'd run out of tears ages ago (almost literally). The last time he'd cried was over the death of their father, and that had been but a few stray tears. He wondered briefly if that made him a horrible son, but then he remembered how Fëanáro had brushed aside his concerns for Findecáno, how his father had _laughed_ at the idea of going back for their uncle and cousins and betrayed them.

He had no idea what Findecáno had gone through crossing the Helcaraxë. If it was anything approaching the hell that was Angband, he was quite certain he didn't want to know. He wouldn't have been surprised, though. Many of those who had been left behind carried bitter hatred for their family. They were _hated_.

Not, of course, that the feeling wasn't mutually reciprocated by certain members of the family. Maitimo sighed, staring dully down at the death grass beneath his feet. It looked just as sick and spent as he felt right now.

Losing Findecáno was like losing some vital part of his being which he'd been depending on since they were young and naïve, since before this whole mess had started. They had been closer than Maitimo had ever been to some of his brothers. Closer still than even that.

His eyes fluttered shut, remembering the first time they'd kissed. It had been a long time ago, when there had still been a reason to be happy in this world.

_He is… really gone._ The concept was so foreign that it was hard to accept.

Irrationally, Maitimo felt as if some part of him was irrevocably shattered by this singular event, that moment when his world had come crashing down, or at least, what was left of it. He hadn't been able to believe it until he'd seen the reality with his own two eyes. What they had done to Findecáno—his body and pride—was inconceivable and beyond disgusting. The body in the mire after the battle had been nearly unrecognizable. No one would ever have identified it, except that the enemy had made quite a point of throwing his starry banner into the muck and beating his cousin's blood into it so deeply that the blood would never come out. Maitimo had wanted to retch just from looking. He had been unable, though. His mask had held before legions of his own warriors. It wouldn't do to let them see how very important their High King was to the exiled Fëanorion. Their relationship had been and always would be a very deeply kept secret.

Because, as the rules were laid down by the Valar, cousins did not marry. And while he and Findecáno had not married each other, they'd certainly shared a marriage bed, he recalled rather wryly. The thought brought a broken smile to his lips.

"Brother," a lyrical voice intoned from behind him, "We are waiting for thee."

Ah yes… they were supposed to be moving south again, right? He'd almost forgotten. Maybe his aged mind was catching up to him.

Maitimo glanced over his shoulder at Macalaurë, who looked little better than himself. Dark rings had formed beneath his younger brother's eyes, and even a Man would have been able to spot how tired the other was. His brother's whole body rocked on his heels, as if he might topple beneath a faint breeze.

"Of course," he muttered, standing. The redhead brushed his cloak absently down to cover his deformed right arm. Even their soldiers did not like to look at the place where Findecáno had removed his hand from the rest of his body. The healed stump burned at the edges as if the wound were festering. It had been healed for many hundreds of years.

_Ah, Findecáno… perhaps thou didst make this burden easier to bear._

Maitimo felt emptiness settle in the hole in his chest where the loss of his dear cousin had eaten away some important part of him that would never be filled again. He couldn't help but feel as though he'd just had his hand sheared off all over again.

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This was one was pretty short... It always makes me so sad that Fingon died *sigh* Poor Maitimo

Review if you wish to


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